Regan was about to turn to the Marine staff sergeant still awaiting orders beside the door to study his uniform when Riyad crossed the deck and crouched down beside the body. His left hand stretched out.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"
His fingers paused as that frozen, murky stare settled on hers. "I was about to—"
"Touch the body before I've had a chance to photograph it? And without gloves?" Not on her watch. Jurisdiction be damned. "Agent Riyad, this compartment is now an active crime scene and that—" She pointed to the airbag. "—is evidence. It and everything else in this room must be handled and cataloged as such."
Ire torched the man's stare, cooking off the ice.
Regan ignored it—along with the grim satisfaction she caught pressing into the remaining Marine's lips. She had the distinct impression that, like Chief Yrle, the staff sergeant had recently tussled with Agent Riyad about something…and lost.
She let the insubordination go.
Unlike the man now rising to his feet, she was a steadfast student of the school of Praise in Public, Pummel in Private—unless it involved the prevention of evidence tampering. Speaking of which…unless they took serious steps and soon, that tampering was about to commence from an entirely new quarter.
Regan turned toward the frantic shuffle of boots outside the compartment. As she feared, a deep bellow followed.
"Captain's on Deck!"
The Head Rubbernecker had arrived. Right on time, too.
Soldier, Sailor, Marine, Airman or civilian, it never failed. Death fascinated them all. Whoever sat at the top of the food chain always wanted his own, unobstructed view of the kill, too, no matter how grisly. From the set of Riyad's jaw, even he knew the consequences of extraneous boots mucking up the scene.
"I'll go." She was Army. Nothing to lose.
Not in the long run.
Though to be honest, an Infantry or Artillery bird preening on the opposite side of that door wouldn't have changed her mind, let alone tempered her coming instructions.
Yet another reason why she'd turned down the Army's offer of a commission as a Military Police lieutenant following her coma. As a warrant, she could get away with her own particular brand of verbal murder during the course of an investigation. It was a perk she'd enjoyed to no end on occasion—and would again.
Not to mention, her strength lay in working investigations day in and day out, from the ground up, not overseeing them. The latter of which, as a Military Police officer, would become her lot in life.
To Regan's surprise, Riyad followed her out into the passageway, swiftly overtaking her to reach the captain first.
Evidently, Super Sleuth still didn't trust her.
"Sir, the translator's dead. Under the circumstances, I recommend Agent Chase be escorted to her quarters and removed from the ship—immediately."
Wow. She'd anticipated a bayonet to the back at some point today. But an open and preemptive slash right across the jugular? And in front of witnesses?
That took serious balls.
Riyad's appeared to be forged from the same steel that made up this rhythmically rocking ship.
Fortunately for her, the captain seemed to possess an iron set of his own. He extended a hand toward her as he pointedly ignored Riyad's comment. The man's grip was warm, firm and—in light of the situation—surprisingly friendly. "Brad Armstrong. Welcome aboard the Griffith, Agent Chase. I've been hearing your name quite a bit these past weeks. Been wanting to meet the woman who took down the terror cell." The CO's stare shifted to the now closed conference room door just past her left shoulder, then came back. "Just wish it could've been under better circumstances."
"Thank you, sir."
He made no move toward the door. "What do you need?"
It seemed she'd misjudged the man. She couldn't be happier.
Riyad was not. "Sir, I—"
"Don't possess the experience to oversee a murder investigation." Armstrong turned to the NCIS agent, softening what amounted to Riyad's own public rebuke with what appeared to be a genuinely sympathetic shrug. "Sam, I know you're motivated. And I know this is serious. But you're FCI, not a detective. Agent Chase has worked countless death investigations. We both know we'll need her skills, especially now. Nor can we afford to let the scene deteriorate—especially with all this rocking and rolling—while we wait another day for someone else to get here."
Riyad opened his mouth again, closing it as the captain's hand came up to forestall follow-up argument.
"The decision's been made—at the Pentagon, no less. That's why I'm late. Just got off the horn. Agent Riyad, your concerns regarding Agent Chase's objectivity have been noted and negated at the highest levels—Army, Navy and beyond. She's got the lead on the translator's death. You're to assist. Understood?"
There was a swift undercurrent cutting through that last, though damned if she could discern its source.
But Riyad had.
He offered the captain a brusque nod.
If Armstrong recognized Riyad's lingering displeasure, he ignored it. The captain's answering nod encompassed them both. "Agent Chase, Agent Riyad, I'll be on the bridge should you need me. Keep me appraised."
She'd definitely misjudged the man. "Yes, sir."
Riyad stood fast as the captain left, his foul mood now directed solely upon her.
Regan forced herself to ignore it. "FCI?"
"Foreign Counterintelligence."
A spook? He was a goddamned spook? He wasn't the only one now pissed. And when she added on that he'd spent the bulk of the earlier crisis in the CO's cabin, whining about her?
Regan scoured her soul for patience. "You said you were with NCIS."
"I am."
Right. Some specialized Navy/FBI/CIA-ish/Homeland Security offshoot most likely. One look at the man's features was enough to confirm that, along with his last name: Riyad. "Sam" might
